Turning the Earth (and Ourselves) Under
Leaning into composting, resting, waiting
It’s post-peak fall in western Ohio: the leaves are more on the ground than the trees, the temps are unpredictably up and down, and Christmas decor is replacing Halloween decorations (that’s NOT me, but if that’s you, I respect that). I’m celebrating Ohio’s passage of protecting abortion rights for women, even while I look with dismay at the voting patterns within my county and groan about our newly elected culture-wars type mayor.
As you know, we live in a small town, so one perk is we’re able to have a decent amount of property for pursuing earth-y activities. I am far from a master gardener - lol if I even qualify as a “novice” gardener; some days I’m not sure I deserve even that title.
We spent some time this week preparing for winter. Turning things back into the ground. I planted my iris bulbs and scattered my wildflower seeds on our newly upturned dirt garden bed that might be overtaken again by grass next spring (*tear* 😢). We ripped out the tomato plants we neglected the second half of the summer (see: “novice,” question mark??). We shredded leaves to add to the gardens, and I balanced precariously on the raised bed walls attempting to till our food waste compost in with the leaves and dirt. I put the outdoor canopy and porch toys away. I thought about the idea of “wintering1.”
It’s really satisfying — albeit, a lot of work! — to prepare things for winter so they’ll be ready to thrive again next spring. It’s also really satisfying to dig in the dirt, using my body to connect with nature in a very direct contact sort of way.
I plant things that then become invisible in hopes that they’ll show up again next year. Then… I go inside, and I wait.
Yes, I suppose there’s a metaphor in there, right?
In some ways, it feels like I am preparing myself for a long process of “rest and digest.” I feel a bit like a bear, meandering around, eating berries wherever I find them and generally trying to stuff myself before I go take a long winter’s nap. Only my stuffing myself is more like intensely pursuing some special interests that I’m trying to learn about, books that I have started and laid aside as I start a new one, discerning a recurring call to try and get my book manuscript published, and deeper explorations into my emotions and my Self.
It feels like a lot, especially when I’m adding all this onto an essentially full-time job, plus the unpaid full-time job of raising two kids 4 and under. My brain feels a bit chaotic sometimes, wanting to chase so many things and knowing there will never be enough time to chase them down the way I want to. (Hi Enneagram Five friends! I have been leaning more into the Five identity as I embrace what feels like an unmasked self — which is amazing — and lol it’s also a lot!)
My gardens contain lessons for me, if I can pause enough to hear them.
We do not plant all the time. We do not grow all the time. We are not harvesting all the time. Sometimes we are just mixing in some old food scraps that turned into black cow poop looking balls, and we trust that weird shit like that is somehow going to turn us into something more magical. But first, we wait. We sleep. We rest. We let the things that we’ve been chewing on digest and seep into our bones. We trust in the future that’s ahead.
In that same vein of waiting…
A year ago, I could barely envision a day like the one I describe above, with my kids involved in helping in the yard. Last year, my mental health was rocky. (I promise I will write more about this one day, but I need to more fully understand my experiences before I can do that, #sorrynotsorry… I’m working with my EMDR therapist though!) The baby was not mobile and wanted to be held; the kids and my spouse and I were always sick; my temper was short and my vision of the future was even shorter.
I longed for a day when they’d be a little more independent and we could do something simple like get stuff done around the house and actually live the kind of life I wanted to live2.
It also felt so far away. It was ungraspable. It was too many seasons ahead of me for me to believe it would ever be here.
(This is how depression works — when you are depressed, it is so, so hard to see a future beyond the present you’re currently existing in).
And yet, here we are. Miraculously, this is just a year later. A magic combo of some pills, some increased independence from the baby, some emerging from the darkness of my postpartum period.
I wintered. It was a long, long winter… but I made it.
Perhaps there are things that will emerge in my future that I can’t even dream about today. Perhaps there’s something in YOUR future that you don’t dare to imagine is possible. Perhaps we can all do a little wintering together, trusting that something else is actually waiting for us on the other side.
Gosh, guys, writing this makes me a little… emotional? (WHAT IS THIS? I don’t do emotions!!). I’m really grateful to have a space to process my feelings in such a meaningful way where I also get to connect with so many of you. I’m glad you’re here! Please share in the comments if this stirred something up in you - maybe how you are thinking about the shift in seasons, in preparing for winter, or if you have dreams you don’t even know you can dream that might emerge in some future season! And if you liked this post, would you press the little heart button? Every engagement means so much to me. 🥰
I credit
for my knowledge of this phrase. Also, last year at almost this exact time, I wrote a post about the changing of seasons and what it inspired in me:You Have Permission to Slow Down
If you’re new here, make sure to subscribe to not miss a post! We talk about religious trauma, mental health, and ex-evangelicalism in this space and I’d love to have you join us. Winter-y vibes have settled across Ohio this past week, and for someone who generally feels they hate winter and the cold (especially the cold!!!…
P.S. This is where saying things to PPD or otherwise stressed moms like “Oh, you’re going to miss these moments so much!” is NOT helpful.
“ A year ago, I could barely envision a day like the one I describe above, with my kids involved in helping in the yard”
This sentence moved me. I’m in a really challenging parenting season where a lot of even mundane joys feel hopelessly out of reach. It is comforting to be reminded that the future can be both unimaginable and perfectly ordinary.
Christine, I loved this. The idea of wintering is so hopeful. "We do not plant all the time. We do not grow all the time. We are not harvesting all the time. Sometimes we are just mixing in some old food scraps that turned into black cow poop looking balls, and we trust that weird shit like that is somehow going to turn us into something more magical. But first, we wait." Eeeee! So good.